


Being Known

by ArcaneHackist



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disabled Character, F/M, Gore, Graphic Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Shower Together, Slow Burn, Smut, Somewhat, To Be Continued, Whump, character injury, handjobs, not currently updating, panic disorder, past character injury, softness and sadness rolled into one, they’ll get together ok, this will earn the warning I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26438791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcaneHackist/pseuds/ArcaneHackist
Summary: Michael isn’t... good with these things. With actually trying to live. His wing isn’t strong enough to get him back to the Silver City, so for now, he’s stuck.And dealing with a lot of things, his main concern being the regret. Since when does he feel regret?Maybe a little jaunt on Earth isn’t the worst thing to happen right now. Maybe he’ll be able to figure out all this. Somehow.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Ella Lopez/Michael
Comments: 206
Kudos: 324





	1. Licking Wounds

Michael really does feel like an asshole, now that he’s left the penthouse— and isn’t that such a revelation? Actually feeling regret for his actions. Lucifer’s gotten into his head again, like he’s so good at doing, like it’s him with the reign over fear and not his double. 

He’s glad he didn’t sleep with the detective, now that his little deceptive stunt is over. With what he feels now, he doubts he’d be able to live with himself if he had. That’s... too far.

Cracking his neck, he buttons his jacket over the bloodstained tatters of his shirt and steps off Lux’s front steps into the night, pressing a scrap of paper towel to the sluggishly bleeding cut on his face. 

It doesn’t do much, of course, so he wanders the night until he comes across a little drugstore with flickering lights. The only one open this late, probably.

The elderly clerk is too busy reading the paper to actually look up at Michael, so he meanders through the aisles with no real purpose until he comes across some clear-ish suture strips. They’ll work nice enough for the few days the wound is open, he supposes, so he ends up at the counter.

Going off nothing but watching other people buy things, he pulls out Lucifer’s credit card and hands over his item with a sarcastically chipper “Hello!”

The poor man looks like it scares him half to death, and Michael takes the second he takes to recover to read his nametag. Davis.

“What happened to you?” Davis asks, scanning the item with a raised eyebrow and eyes too suspicious for Michael’s liking. 

Luckily, Michael’s a great liar. Probably not so great right now, since his heart’s not in it, but passable. 

“Bike accident, you know how it is.” he deadpans, lilting his voice halfheartedly in a joking manner. People drive bad enough here that it’s not too hard to believe, despite his exhaustion. 

It seems to work, well enough at least that he hands over the sutures and the credit card with a blank nod.

“Hope it gets better, you have a good night buddy.” the clerk drawls, more interested in picking his newspaper back up than watching Michael leave. 

He tries not to take it personally, then curses internally at caring about the opinions of strangers. Like it would really matter if the guy called the cops— he’d be out of it quick. 

Michael sighs, staring up at the light-polluted sky as he walks along, and reins himself in. He’s not like Lucifer, no, and won’t spiral into a childish destructive tantrum.

Though the thought of levelling a lamppost does tempt him so.

Pulling the matte black credit card from his pocket once more, he flips it between the fingers of his free hand and pulls the paper towel away to see that it’s still bleeding. Rats.

Michael needs a place to stay. Deep down he knows they won’t look for him, either— and doesn’t that sting. He’s inspired quite a bit of hate, but the thought that they probably won’t put in the effort to track him down? 

Whatever.

He settles into a steady rhythm, keeping his steps as even as he can and shoulders straight as possible while he walks. And walks, and continues despite the way his body aches for sleep or sustenance.

The curse of existing here, on Earth, he supposes. For whatever reason, he has to sustain himself like the creatures of the dirt do. Probably something to do with time.

He spends long enough walking that his face stops bleeding. The relentless black of the sky starts to give way to a gentle light, and that jolts him back into awareness like nothing else ever will.

For that great sun in the sky, the stars, would never compare to the deep midnight curtains Michael hung. The deepest blue, the backdrop that made the beauty known. 

he wanders into a motel, not bothering to learn the counter lady’s name as he slaps the stupid plastic card onto the counter. 

“Bike accident.” he grumbles at her questioning stare, and fumes at the way another human takes his lies at face value. He takes the key she gives him and he seethes, wanting nothing more to scream in her face how simple she is to believe him.

He smiles, nods once, and steps out onto the pavement. The search becomes a little feverish, after a moment, before he finally notices the faded gold number 7 on his room.

Wouldn’t want to stay out too long after Sol rears its ugly head, banishing the deep velvet of his night.

Resentment settles somewhere heavy in his sternum, and he slides the curtains closed as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. Silence. Real silence, the place he’s wandered to far enough from the din of traffic and human activity.

The room is hideous, with drab teal walls, thick beige carpet, and disgusting yellow gingham accents. Even in the darkness, which his eyes see perfectly well in, he knows this is probably his lowest of lows so far. 

Besides breaking his wing, of course. Nothing could top that. 

He strips with little ceremony, neatly folding his jacket, shirt, and pants on the corner of the bed. Lucifer’s done a number on his ribs, a dark bruise on its way to fading settled there. 

Now that he’s alone he lets himself go, taking a deep breath as his shoulders slip into their familiar slant and the tug at his spine subsides.

Michael’s shower is quick and uneventful, and he takes an extra moment to sit in front of the mirror and use the sutures he bought to make himself look presentable.

Hatred curls in his gut, an unwelcome warmth that makes his eyes flash a familiar gold in the mirror.

They were once so alike.

Inseperable, two sides of the same coin. A reflection of eachother in every way. What now? Their true eyes aren’t even the same color, and Michael is further disfigured. 

He hisses through his teeth and steps back from the mirror, deciding he doesn’t like the face looking at him from it.

Carelessly, and mostly still dripping wet, he slips on his boxers and falls into the bed. Sleep comes easily to him.

It always has, even in the Silver City, despite not needing it there. A way to pass the time, to drift between life and death, to meditate and let his mind conjure adventures unheard of.

———————

Michael wakes with a start to the sound of absolutely brutal knocking on his room’s door, and slips into his pants and a shirt before he heads over to let in whoever this overzealous visitor is. Deciding he can’t be bothered to actually button the shirt, he sighs and swings the door open.

Only to be met with a silver shield and a gruff man in navy.

“LAPD. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”


	2. 20 Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael starts to realize he’s in a worse predicament than he thought. His brother’s as insufferable as always, and Decker seems intent on eviscerating him somehow.
> 
> And then there’s Miss Lopez.

Michael stares blankly at the police officer for a moment, blinking as his just-awakened brain catches up with the statement the man had all but yelled.

Well, so much for taking a damned break. Now that his energy’s somewhat replenished, his dreaded ability is back in full force.

He senses fear in the man, of Michael, of the wound on his face and what it could mean. Of the way he’s standing, even, not cowering at the sight of the badge or taking off running. He’s afraid of his own badge, too, of his family losing him somehow to his job. It’s muted, tucked away, and he notices the man has a fantastic handle on himself.

At least now the sense comes in handy, despite the archangel wishing he could flip a switch like his twin and turn it off. 

“I guess. What’s this all about, anyway?” he asks, craning his neck to spot a concerning amount of squad cars. And, of fucking course, a black corvette convertible. Dad’s got to be playing some joke as a way of punishing him, because there’s no way this is a coincidence.

Leaning back against one of the unmarked cars, Michael lets the officer grill him as he buttons his shirt. He hasn’t caught sight of his brother yet. Small mercies.

“Where were you this morning between the hours of six and eight?” she asks, tapping a tiny notebook with a pen half-empty.

She’s afraid of time. Painfully vain, tucking her hair behind her ear and checking her reflection in the window behind him. She’s aging, starting to have a crisis. The feeling of panic is soft, resigned, but he knows she likely breaks down at night. Michael knows the type.

“I was sleeping. I checked in at five, though you probably know that.” he answers calmly, the truth being as good of an answer as any.

She nods, jotting that down, and the gesture almost makes him laugh. It’s a simple enough thing to remember, right? There’s not exactly a dozen people here to interview.

“If you don’t mind me asking you a question, just what is happening-“ he starts, but she cuts him off, and the carelessness of it makes him seethe. 

“Do you have anyone who can verify your wherabouts in that time? And what happened to your face?” She rattles off, looking more at the window behind him to avoid his eyes.

“No, I don’t. I was sleeping, alone.” he answers, speaking quickly and impatiently. “I had a bike accident. There’s a drugstore I can confirm that at.” just in case they think something ridiculous is going on. Well it sort of is, considering the... brotherly love he’s recently experienced.

“Michael!” he hears a familiar voice spit, and he closes his eyes to take a deep breath. Speak of the fucking Devil. This day is shaping up to be just peachy.

He vainly stands up taller, narrowing his eyes as his brother blasts a path through officers and bystanders toward him like a hurricane. Decker follows close behind, murder in her eyes as much as his. The questioning officer takes one look at them, at her, and just steps back with her hands up.

It’d be quite lovely if she could take him with.

Lucifer grips his tattered shirt, and Michael lets out a hiss as his brother pins him to the car and bodily lifts him until his feet dangle above the ground. Chloe, for the moment, also seems mad enough to allow the violence. 

“You killed him. I know you had something to do with this!” Lucifer growls, eyes red as he pulls forward and slams Michael back against the van hard enough to rock it a little. “What, you fell because of your trickery, so you’re resorting to murder? Maybe to force Dad to take you back?”

Michael laughs, high and reedy, mostly to hide the way his face wants to twist into a grimace at the pain in his back.

“Idiot! I’d never kill a human. And I’ve still got perfectly fine wings, thank you!” he huffs, gripping Lucifer’s wrists, but his grip doesn’t ease. They’re somewhat easily matched, he could break the hold, but watching the doubt in Decker’s eyes at him being manhandled is too good to pass up. She still is unreadable to Michael, unfortunately.

“I’ll find a way to prove it, brother. I know you did something, manipulated someone. He was just a receptionist! Did you do something to him to get a room key?” Lucifer asks, still stuck on the thought that Michael’s somehow going to break one of the cardinal rules just to get a damn motel room. 

“The receptionist I met was a woman! And I paid for the room!” he argues, fumbling with his right hand to pull Lucifer’s matte black credit card from his pants pocket. 

His brother visibly deflates at that, dropping him only to snatch the card from his hand. “Bloody thief.” he snaps.

Now that he’s on solid ground, Michael sighs and rolls his right shoulder to ease a bit of the ache as he stands up straight again. He knows he’s slanted, but doesn’t much care at the moment.

“What happened to your face?” Chloe asks, tense, hand at her hip, like shooting him would do anything. He regrets now more than ever that he can’t poke at something bothering her.

“Ask Sam. But I can’t guarantee an answer, since he doesn’t lie and all. He seems, ironically, hell bent at keeping you from how horrible he really is.” Michael states.

She slaps him. Hard. It doesn’t hurt like it would if he was mortal, but the sound of it rings in his ears nonetheless. She’s lucky he thinks quick and turns his head with the blow, or she’d likely have broken her hand. 

She turns back to Lucifer, hand straying back to point at Michael. “Did you do that to him?” she asks, not as angry as he thought she’d be. Figures.

Lucifer searches for an answer, and eventually just settles on “Yes.”

She gives him a glare, one likely meaning something like ‘we are going to discuss this later or so help me’, then turns her attention back to Michael. 

She’s stronger than he thought, he’ll give her that, and she levels a steely glare at him. “You stay here. You’re still a suspect. Run and I’m not afraid to shoot you.”

Well, he doesn’t doubt that.

The duo walk off together, towards another male bystander, who is looking visibly worried about what’s going to happen to him after what he just saw.

Michael sighs, waits until they’re a little further away, and wanders toward the yellow police tape crisscrossing the entrance to the motel. He doesn’t dare go inside, but he can see enough just through the glass. 

In front of the reception desk is a man. Facedown, in a hideous dark forest green shirt matching the woman’s from when he checked in. There’s a sizeable pool of blood surrounding him, and it’s fairly obvious why. 

Sticking out of his back from various angles and of various sizes, are pieces of glass. The largest one he can see is jutting out of him near his left shoulder blade, and is about the size of a DVD case. The smallest he can spot is no bigger than a quarter. 

They’re pressed into his skin through the shirt in the rough shape of wings.

The horribly cheerful forensics worker, miss Lopez, is taking photos of the wounds when she looks up and spots Michael.

Confusion takes over her face, just for a second, before she takes in his apparel and stance. She visibly bristles, stomping out under the crime tape and towards him with single minded intent. She stops just a foot short of him, bends down, takes her shoe off,

And starts hitting him with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first crumb! I do have a plan for where this is headed, I promise.


	3. Give a Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe forces Lucifer to give Michael the bare essentials.   
> Ella wonders about Michael and Lucifer’s brotherly dynamic, and further questions who Michael really is.

Michael takes the beating with what dignity he can muster, only raising his hands after a moment when she raises her hits a little too close to his face for his liking.

He’d normally be concerned about the shirt, it was expensive, but it’s a lost cause anyway. 

“I know you’re brothers, but that’s just cold! And you let Chloe believe you were him, that’s just messed up dude-“

He zones out a little, then, but comes back to her rant abruptly when he feels a wave of fear roll through him. From Ella.  
Not of him though... for him? That’s odd.

She’s stopped speaking, and he leans to the side to avoid her hand, which has tentatively come up towards his face. “What happened to you? That looks really nasty.”

He knows better than to lie to her. She’s too good at her job to know that a bike accident isn’t probable cause for his injury. It’s too deliberate. 

“I got into a bit of trouble with the wrong person.” he settles on, tucking his hands into his pockets to seem a little more nonthreatening.

It seems to work. Her shoulders go slack, and she rests her hands on her camera. “I’m just going to be honest with you, and I promise this isn’t just about your face, you kind of look not great right now. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s spared from having to answer by a clap on his left shoulder, and his brother leaning a little on him.

“Ah Miss Lopez. I see you’ve met the little weasel.” Lucifer grins, like it’s a joke, like Michael is supposed to laugh like he hasn’t heard that so many times before. 

She narrows her eyes, looking between them, and abruptly snaps back to her chipper self. “Yeah, I already gave him hell. Families can be crazy. Just don’t be too hard on eachother, ‘kay?” 

And despite all the lovely energy she brings to every conversation, she knows when not to get involved in something. She looks between them again, grips her camera with a different kind of determination, and turns back towards the crime scene.

“I can see how you would think I’m involved-“ Michael starts, but Lucifer cuts him off with a huff.

“If you hurt them. Any of them. Any human on this Earth, I will kill you.” Lucifer growls, eyes briefly red.

Michael blinks. “Something really must be off about Ella if you’re acting like that.” he taunts quietly, and Lucifer snatches his hand from Michael’s shoulder like he’s been burned. 

“Don’t read me.” he hisses, looking for all the world like he wants to add another wound to his double’s face.

“Right. Anyway, am I done here?” he asks, delighting in the way Lucifer now looks like he’d kill him right in the middle of all these people. He’s got buttons, and Michael knows just how to press every single one.

Lucifer calms instantly, though, when the detective lays a hand on his shoulder blade and sighs.

“Michael.” Chloe starts, making a somewhat admirable effort to not say his name like a swear word. Her lip still curls at the sight of him, though. “Why were you staying here in the first place? That’s what I don’t get.”

He looks at her, looks at an expectant Lucifer, and rolls his eyes. “Because I don’t have any papers. Money. I had the credit card on me and used it because it’s what I had.” 

It seems to not be the answer she was expecting, and she looks briefly up at her partner.

Lucifer smirks. “Aww. Left with nothing, are you? I wonder what that must feel like. Why don’t you head on back up to see Dad, then?”

The barb lands, and Michael bristles. “You know damn well I can’t make it back up there alone.” He can fly, can glide, can get anywhere in a single realm. But travelling between them, or somewhere as high up as the Silver City, is beyond him. 

He’s saved from any further fighting by Chloe, again, and damn if he isn’t starting to like her because of it. “So... you have nothing. You don’t exist.” she states, somewhat blankly, and Michael just shrugs.

She gets this flash of something soft, something unusual, and just sighs. “Well I can’t just let you be homeless. So Lucifer-“ she pointedly glares at him. “Is going to get you your papers, so you aren’t literally a walking illegality. And I’m also going to call Amenadiel for you, since I know you’re too damn prideful to do it yourself-“

“Detective, you’d let this purveyor of lies stay on this Earth? What, do you think Linda and Amenadiel will just take him in?” He asks, incredulous.

“I’m right here.” Michael states, and is ignored.

“If you have any better ideas, then say them now.” Chloe warns, pulling her phone from her pocket.

Lucifer snatches it, holding it far above her head like a child. “I do. I have just recently been gifted an apartment. He can stay there, and out of trouble.”

Well... that’s one way to keep tabs on him, Michael supposes. At least he won’t be sleeping on some roof, which he was contemplating prior. 

Chloe holds her hand out and nods, Lucifer duitfully returning her cell phone. She turns, then, and looks dead into Michael’s eyes with a gaze that would undoubtedly make a mortal shiver. 

“I will be keeping an eye on you, personally.”

Michael nods once, taking the threat with total indifference. She grabs Lucifer’s arm, and they’re back to the job, just like that.

He sighs. This is going to suck.

———————

After wrapping up loose ends at the precinct, Chloe looks up from her desk to realize that it’s nearly eleven. Lucifer lost interest in paperwork long ago, and is playing a game on his phone.

She clears her throat, and he perks up immediately.

“All finished, detective? Are we finally free?” he asks, excited like he’s been chained to the desk like her.

She sighs, eyebrows raised. “You could’ve gone home when we got back, Lucifer.” she states.

He sits up in his chair, looking incredulous, and slaps a hand to his forehead. “That’s what I forgot! Well, no time as good as the present. Would you like me to take you to the penthouse tonight? That way you don’t have to drive all the way home and them back in the morning, I can make you breakfast and-“

He’s adorably insecure, despite having her wrapped around his little finger, and Chloe grins.

“Sure, Lucifer. We need to talk anyway. About your brother.” She replies, voice firm.

“I’m sure I could find some other more... pleasant matters to speak about, detective.” he insists, though the second half of the innuendo falls flat against her serious expression. “Very well. I hope it’s a short conversation.”

———————

The apartment has a balcony, which Michael alights on somewhere around nine at night. It’s deliciously dark out, and he takes a moment to stretch his wings and take it all in. 

Using the key Lucifer gave him, he steps inside, and sighs.

The place is... something. He doesn’t want to say it’s awful, or great, because it isn’t either of those things. Whoever gifted Lucifer this place was probably rich, but there’s nothing but the essentials. It’s a studio, with everything but the bathroom out in the open. The bed’s not even in a room! 

The whole place is painted a bright white, with light wood as flooring and metal accents on everything else. Even the counter is stainless steel.

It’s... ugly. Barren. As much as a desert as Death Valley, and Michael briefly imagines stepping into sand when he steps in onto the hardwood floor. 

Better than an alley, though. Tired  
from the flight, and realizing he probably should eat soon, Michael settles in onto the bed, leaving the balcony door open for some semblance of comfort. 

His face should be healed by tomorrow, at least.

———————

Lucifer settles in on the couch, take-out burger in hand, chewing absentmindedly, feeling mildly threatened by the look Chloe’s giving him.

She asks a simple question, but one that makes him feel not a small amount of dread nonetheless.

“Lucifer. Did you really do that to his face?”


	4. Olive Branch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael’s summoned to the precinct for a few questions that have him worried about more than he bargained for.
> 
> Ella’s a walking contradiction, and Michael wonders how no one else has noticed yet.

Lucifer feels like a deer in headlights, wishing he was as much to be run over and avoid this conversation. To be flipped over a windshield in complete ignorance to meet his untimely demise. 

Avoid the guilt, previously hidden in a neat little compartment behind where he stores all his contempt for Michael. Contempt, because he can’t bring himself to call it hate, even after everything. 

The guilt for breaking a promise. He’s gone too far, again, and knows it before he opens his mouth to answer. Knows by the steel in her eyes and the hard set to her jaw, the way she’d looked at the blood under his twin’s fingernails and known. 

She knows him, knows his very soul so deeply he’s surprised she’s not somehow reading his mind. 

“Yes. I did that to him.” Lucifer replies, his tone clipped, hoping she’ll go easy on him but knowing she won’t. She perches unevenly on the barstool, lips turned into a disappointed frown.

And if that isn’t the worst expression on her, disappointment. In him. “Lucifer. You fought with him, pinned him down, and cut his face.” she states.

He’s uncomfortable, then, and lashes out. “Yes! No matter how many times I need to bloody say it yes! I can’t have him impersonating me, ruining my life! I’m not guilty for it, nor will I ever be!” and though he’s surprised by his own outburst, Chloe’s frown just grows deeper, her anger roiling just beneath the surface of the calm facade she’s struggling to keep.

“That’s horrible.” she murmurs, thinking back to the depth of the cut. The sutures, even with his healing ability, barely keeping the edges of it together. It was so deep, slightly uneven, like Lucifer had pinned him down and done it while his twin was kicking and screaming. 

She shivers. Not because she’s scared of Lucifer, no, because she’s scared of who he’d be without her. 

His face has fallen, from her words, mouth pressed into a thin line and eyes studying her face for anything she’ll give him.

“I’m not sorry.” he murmurs, and sounds a little sadder now. The words are barely a whisper.

“I know. That’s enough. Finish eating and we’ll go to bed, alright?” She states. At his hopeful look, she sighs. “Sleeping, Lucifer. I need time to think.”

———————

Michael wakes to the sound of pigeons. The... somewhat loud sound of pigeons.

Alright, yeah, maybe he should open his eyes now. He sits up with some difficulty, having slept wrong, and not given his shoulder time to recover from the flight before he laid down. It’s morning, and sunlight assaults his eyes like it always has.

His stomach growls, rather loudly, and he looks over to the gaggle of birds perched on the balcony railing. “Should roast one of you.” he grumbles, and slithers to his feet. 

The kitchen, luckily, is stocked with non-perishable food. Cans of soup are easy enough, so he makes two. While waiting for them to be done, he searches the closet for something remotely wearable. It’s the only room other than the bathroom with a door, infuriatingly.

The previous tenant, probably older, has left quite the selection despite the small space to store clothes. There’s boxes, too, unlabeled and high up on shelves he can’t bring himself to get down. Too much effort. At least he doesn’t need to go looking for shoes, though.

A dark grey tweed jacket catches his eye, and he finds a light grey turtleneck and black pants to go with it. Not exactly the height of fashion, but it’s not bad taste, he supposes. 

His hair takes just a few moments to tame, laying mostly flat on his head with just some teasing with water. It curls a little at his temples, but he manages to get it mostly in order. The wound on his face is scabbed over, pink at the edges, skin marred and ugly. It’s going to stay, and despite the urge to scream bloody murder about it, Michael just sighs. 

He doesn’t like to admit it, but he hates that they’re different. He always has. The light to his dark, the fire to his water. It hurts.

The two cans of soup are enough to satiate him for now, it seems, and his body is already somewhat relieved by the sustenance.

As if on cue, he’s just turning to leave the apartment when he hears fluttering. 

“Damn pigeons.” he murmurs, and turns from the kitchen to see Lucifer standing in his living room, wings wide. 

Well, there goes his brief peace. 

But Lucifer looks different, carries himself differently, having trouble focusing on Michael’s face like he doesn’t want to look at it. Fear rolls off him in lazy, steady waves.

“Oh, she didn’t like your little display of dominance, huh?” Michael grins, eyes glinting black, and Lucifer’s on him in an instant.

A hand to his throat, pushing him back hard until he hits the wall and makes a dent. His right side screeches with pain in protest and Michael sees spots, gasping for air against the sparks of agony ratcheting up his spine. 

Lucifer can’t know how bad it really is. Mustn’t know his weakness, or he’ll pounce on it like he always has.

“The safety deposit.” Michael jokes weakly, even as his windpipe closes against Lucifer’s palm.

His brother laughs, then, high pitched and hysterical, dropping his twin to the ground and stepping back. 

“Stop fucking reading me, Michael.” he commands, voice calm, like he really would send him back up to heaven the hard way. 

“You know I can’t turn it off like you can.” Michael stands, and forcefully pushes his shoulders even, forces his right arm to be more lively as he speaks and less of a dead weight at his side. “What did you come here for anyway, Luci?”

His brother answers quick, not wanting to prolong their time together any more than necessary. “We have to do some more work at the precinct for the case. You’re needed, for some reason.” 

The last bit amuses him, and he chuckles as he unfurls his wings, walking to the balcony with his brother. “Too important for you to know, hm?” 

———————

The sketch artist is nice enough, and Michael spends his time describing this and that of the female receptionist he met at the motel. He caught on somewhere halfway through their first question about her that she never really worked there, but it’s bothering him a little.

Not that he cares about this little human squabble, they kill eachother all the time, he’d be here for millenia if he worried about that.

But he’s worried he sees a little more of the picture than they do— and damn it if he doesn’t want justice for their miniscule souls nonetheless. 

“May I go speak to someone? I think I may have an idea.” He asks, drawing the best imitation of Lucifer’s smile he can muster.

It works, because of course his brother’s got fingers in every metaphorical pie at the precinct. They drool over him. Michael walks slow, catalogueing faces, reactions and lack thereof. Unsure of who to speak to, he wanders into the lab, met by a gentle humming. Ella.

Ella Lopez. Yes, Ella ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Lopez. 

He turns to leave, to find someone else, to not deal with whatever beating she’s got planned for him today, but can’t manage it the second her eyes meet him.

And... she smiles. Because of course she does. That’s who she is. To believe that Michael’s appearance was all that of a brotherly prank in their messed up family.

“Michael! They finally got you to the artist, huh? And I know I shouldn’t tell you this, because you probably know, you’re smart like that— the receptionist didn’t really work there, she was-“

He interrupts her, but unlike most of the people she does it to she doesn’t seem to mind much. “Casing the place. Or waiting for our unfortunate crystalline angel.” 

She nods vigorously, stripping off her latex gloves and coming over to talk to him properly. Now that she’s closer, and he’s not distracted, she’s... on his Father she’s something else. Subtle terror rolls off her like a thick fog, clogging his senses and his brain with the scent of lilies. It makes him instantly nauseous.

He straightens his stance and looks at her, really looks, and realizes she’s asked him a question. She repeats it at his obvious confusion.

“Why’d you come in here? Chloe should be back in a few minutes, I’m sure you could discuss some stuff with her.” Ella prompts, wide eyes so bright with genuine camaraderie, even while Michael’s tongue grows heavy with the taste of cold metal. 

He wonders silently how she’s even functioning right now. “I’m not... on speaking terms with her. Besides, you seemed concerned about me. Wanted to reassure you again that I’m fine.” 

It’s partially the truth, but she looks at him like it’s the last thing she’ll believe. “Sure. I heard about your housing situation, I’m glad you’re not on the street! You can crash with me if you ever need to, you know where to find me.”

Michael blinks, because he doesn’t know how to process the olive branch she’s just handed him on a silver platter. Why are these things always so complicated?

“The murder was obviously religiously motivated.” he states, restarting the conversation, but his misdirection only makes her give him a knowing look.

“Yeah, I’m waiting on the autopsy results. but I picked over two hundred pieces of glass out of him! It’s this super high quality stuff, like they’d use in a museum. It normally has a serial number on one of the edges, but they thought to get rid of that piece. And I’ve dusted all of them for fingerprints.” she rants. 

She knows he’s not Lucifer, knows he’s technically not supposed to be in here. Yet here she is, bouncing her research off of him as if he was.

“What? Don’t look so confused. You’re smart, and I want to know your opinion.” 

She leans in close, then, eyes worried, and Michael has to steady himself on the nearby counter as his skin cools and the overwhelming smell of lilies surrounds him with its sickly sweet perfume.

“Do you think this person is going to kill someone again?” And there’s the fear, finally dancing in her eyes. She’s hidden it so well.

“Yes.” is Michael’s simple answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand... there it is. Michael has his reason to see her again!


	5. Horns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ella and Michael talk more, and the angel only becomes more confused by her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal thank you to the discord for finding Ella’s coffee for me!

Michael stares, eyes blank, as Ella walks back over to the microscope.

“It does seem like one that will keep going.” she states, struggling to keep her voice level as she straightens the slide with shaking hands. 

He stays silent for a moment, taking a deep breath against the phantom pain of hands around his throat. 

“Seems the artistic ones always do.” he mumbles, leaning up against the lab table while he watches her. 

She seems to remember something, straightening up with a newfound purpose to stride over and look up at him with concern he really thinks should be reflected to herself. She furrows her brow, the expression doing nothing to make her more intimidating, and pokes him in the center of the chest.

“You got a place to stay, right? I heard Lucifer talking about leaving you on the street, the asshole! Tell me you didn’t sleep under a bridge last night.”

He laughs, then, using that as an excuse to step out of her space and shake his head. “No, he gave me an apartment. As much as he was probably thinking about tossing me out, Chloe made him.” 

Ella sighs, with a huge amount of relief. Like it’s her personal goal to make sure he’s not suffering.

It’s a little hypocritical, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“You know, he doesn’t ever say people’s names. I’ve been noticing it more and more. With every person he meets. The people he talks to the most get nicknames.” she murmurs, mostly thinking aloud as she leans back on the counter opposite him. 

“Names are personal.” Michael answers simply, tilting his head. “We haven’t had the greatest time growing up. Being worried about people leaving isn’t really a stretch, so he’s gotten to the point where he tries to distance himself from everyone.” There. Maybe now she’ll save some of that abominable pity for his twin. 

It has the opposite effect, and Michael finds arms around his waist in the time it takes him to blink. She’s hugging him, quite tightly as well.

He settles his arms around her shoulders, confused before she explains the reason for her assault.

“I know you guys didn’t have the best time growing up, Lucifer said as much. That can be hard, I’m so sorry.”

He sighs. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men and whatnot. He pats her back awkwardly.

“Well, he took it worse than me.” he grumbles, and she finally lets him breathe, stepping back to look at her watch. 

“Oh my gosh, it’s my lunch! Do you want to go get coffee while you’re here? Not from the machine here obviously, that’s gross. But there’s a place down the street that’s super great, they’ve got all these farm grown ingredients-“

He cuts off her ranting, and damn it if it doesn’t bother her. Usually interrupting people gets them to leave him alone. She seems to be used to it though, which makes him a little angry for a reason he can’t discern. 

“Sure. I forgot my wallet, though.” he states, and it’s surprisingly the truth. Lucifer had practically tossed him off the balcony to get here, it’s probably still in the apartment.

“Oh, I’ll pay! Their prices are super reasonable and everything.” she grins, rocking back and forth at the prospect of caffeine. Michael finds himself craving it a little as well, surprisingly. 

She practically bounces out the lab doors, expecting him to follow, and he does. Drawn more by the prospect of a free drink than social time, but he follows nonetheless.

———————

Ella talks to so many people. So many that Michael forgets names and faces mostly as they’re introduced to him, and it’s ages before he finds himself ordering at the counter. His eyes scan the board without any real purpose as he rattles off his favorite drink. 

“Mocaccino, no whipped cream.” he states, and Ella looks personally offended by the second half of his order. At his confused look she just laughs. 

“Whipped cream is the best part!” she argues, then steps up to order. “Caramel triple frap with extra whip and sprinkles!”

The barista looks at them both with a bit of amusement, like she knows something they don’t, and takes down their names from Ella. 

Michael sidles to the area for pickup, and Ella uses that as an opportunity to grab them a table for two.

The mere thought of the implication of a table for two has Michael bothered already, but as he settles at said table and Ella grins he’s met with a whole new wave of bothered-ness.

Is this a date? Dad it better not be.

“So I’ve been thinking. And I know this is going to sound kind of crazy, but you’re super good at listening! Like, a lot better than Lucifer. He zones out a lot. And he’s always off with Chloe, so I usually don’t get anyone to talk shop with in the lab.” She begins, and Michael sips at his drink with as much detachment as he can muster. She seems to notice, and quiets a little, but continues anyway.

“You notice a lot of details. Just thought that you might be able to consult too, like Lucifer does. You’re good at it.” Ella finishes, tapping softly on the lid of her coffee and giving him a hopeful look. 

Michael sighs, long and deep, and thinks about it. Really thinks about it. About her, about the fact that she’s the only person ever in his life to ask if he’s alright. But she’s also just a little piece in Dad’s grand chess game, a soldier in his ant farm. He shouldn’t concern himself with these things, right? Surely some charged questions will arise sometime and be an issue.

“Maybe that’s-“ he begins, and is interrupted by Ella’s cell phone spouting her ringtone, which seems to be the theme of some TV show. 

She looks up, apologetic, with a look that says ‘I have to take this’ and swipes to answer, bringing the phone to her ear.

“Ella Lopez!” she starts cheerfully, and grins wider at the reply. “Chloe! Are we finally going to go out with the girls again? Tell me you’re-“ she pauses, frowns, then grips the phone with white knuckles and takes a deep breath.

Michael sets down his drink at the wave of nausea and stench of lilies, which he is growing to despise. 

“Yeah. Got it. Be down there as soon as I can.” she answers, fumbling with the phone to hang up, dropping it back into her purse.

She doesn’t recover, though, heaving in another deep breath, but seeming to not get much air. 

Michael knows what a panic attack is. Of course he does, he invented them. At her wheeze, at the way her eyes flick wildly from person to person in the shop, he sees it. Sees the purple lights, feels the humidity of the grow room in a sticky heat on his skin.

No one in the shop has noticed her little breakdown yet. He doesn’t want to touch her, knows that’s not a good idea from the ghosting warmth of hands around his throat. So Michael hooks his fingers gently in the strap of her purse, guides her carefully to her feet and takes both of their drinks in hand. 

The walk to the door is only a few steps. but seems to take ages with the way he’s sucked into it with her, pressure insistent on his windpipe. 

She calms noticeably in the open air, sucking in deep frantic breaths of it and pulling her shaking hands close to her chest. 

Michael settles her on a bench along the sidewalk, sitting next to her, doing all he can to help her. Which is really not much. He keeps a few inches of space between them, leans slightly away, and lets her come back from it. 

“Sorry.” she breathes after a few minutes, turning to face him with eyes he wouldn’t be surprised to see in someone twice her age.

“Don’t apologize.” he states, confused, shaking his head. “You can’t do anything about that. They come over you and you can’t. I know how panic attacks work. Don’t apologize.” he repeats, and tears well in her eyes.

Has he said the wrong thing? What happened? What was that phone call even about?

She shakes her head, laughs wetly, and lunges across the bench into his arms. 

Michael hides a wince at the heavy protesting of his back, and settles his arms around her with a little more purpose this time. The sooner this is over the better.

She sniffles, pulls back after almost a full minute, and just laughs again. 

“Okay, I’m going to be late now. Um... there’s another body. So, I should go.” she explains, pulling tissues out of her purse and struggling to clean up her face. “I mean, you could come with, since Lucifer drove you to the precinct and all.”

Right. Drove. Michael nods. “As long as you feel alright now.” 

And it’s more of a statement of ‘are you okay to drive’ than actually asking if she’s alright, but she warms anyway. Her raidance even in the face of her terror baffles him. 

“Thank you for getting me out of there. How’d you know that would help?” she tilts her head, curious as she stands.

Michael takes a moment to stand, his side protesting, and if she notices his stiffness she doesn’t comment on it. 

“Crowds generally don’t help in any situation.” he mumbles plainly, and Ella laughs.

“Right you are. Come on, we can walk back and take my car.”

———————

Ella’s car, though Michael’s worried, is a deep purple mustang. At least he won’t have to fold himself into any tiny cars today. He aches enough already.

She fills the silence with the radio, humming along to some upbeat pop station and occasionally tapping at a bobblehead hula girl on the dashbord when they stop. 

She catches him looking at her more than once, but stays silent until they get to the scene. He thinks about staying in the car, avoiding all the nonsense, but at the way she apprehensively stares out the window with her camera in hand makes him change his mind.

He doesn’t really know why.

Michael opens his door the same time she does, and helpfully holds up the crime scene tape when she passes by him. Her hands are still shaking, so he walks along too. 

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Michael grumbles. “I hate being right.”

Ella laughs weakly, so he counts it as a win.

It’s a woman. Leaned up against a planter in front of a law firm, mouth and eyes wide in death. A deep pool of crimson surrounds her. 

She’s dressed to the nines, a formerly white dress with shoes and a purse that likely cost about as much as Ella’s car. 

The glass, once again, is carefully placed and stabbed into her corpse through the fabric. A razor straight X across her torso, and two triangular pieces jutting out of her forehead.

Horns.


	6. Indignities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael agrees to a little more of an exciting night than he bargained for.

Ella goes about her normal routine, camera in hand as she slips into the emotionless state that comes with this kind of work.

There’s no other way to stomach it. And in the way doctors and nurses file death neatly away into their dark corners, so does she. She’s looked into the eyes of so many corpses. 

Michael finds it fascinating, oddly. The way she looks at the battered and broken body of her fellow human and puzzles for answers. The want, the need, to know more. To punish and serve out righteous justice. It reminds him a little of his early days, when he taught the humans “Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, and nothing more” to keep them from killing eachother.

Chloe meanders over and stands near Michael. Near being the operative word— she’s sure to keep at least two feet between them. She looks at him, looks where he’s looking, and just sighs.

“She doesn’t ever stop working.” 

Michael nods. “She’s not sound.” and though it’s not his secret to tell, he feels all the lighter from it.

“What do you mean?” she asks, defensive immediately, probably thinking he had something to do with it.

“Relax, Decker. I didn’t do anything. She’s just... dealing with things.” he murmurs, and Chloe raises an eyebrow.

“She’s been doing really well, as far as I’ve seen. Don’t do your... fear thing to her.” she wrinkles her nose.

Michael laughs dryly, and Ella chooses that moment to stand and come to talk to Chloe. “What are you guys laughing about?”

At their blank looks, she continues. “Same museum glass as last time, but get this. I got a partial shoe print in the blood pool! And another partial heading off down the street. We’ve finally got a lead!”

Ella sounds like she might just squeal outright, and Michael doesn’t blame her. Idly, he rubs at his throat and nods.

“What would make someone do something like this? It’s obviously premeditated, and the victims look to be chosen pretty specifically.” Chloe states, thinking out loud.

Michael buts in before he can stop himself, knowing the answer. “Well if the crime is reigiously motivated, there’s a whole toy chest of trauma to choose from. If the first was an angel and this one a demon, there’s likely a message somewhere.”

At their odd looks, he shrugs.

“Anyway. Ella, can you text me the forensic report on the vic’s connections? I’ll work with Lucifer canvassing the suspects.” Chloe continues.

Ella nods, ponytail bouncing, and grins excitedly as Lucifer’s corvette arrives. Late. He’d be late to his own funeral.

“That’s my cue to leave.” Michael grumbles, and Ella looks immediately crestfallen. 

“But... I thought we were getting to know eachother! And I know you guys don’t get along, but...” She sighs, and Michael looks at her blankly.

“Just... I was planning on going out tonight. Join me after I get the reports? Could use someone responsible.” she grins, leaning over to knock her shoulder with his. His left, specifically. 

Michael looks down into her doe-like eyes, and nods. “I don’t see why not. But I don’t have a phone.” 

“Oh! Here.” she smiles, pulling a pen and pink post-it notes from her purse. All those motivational ones on people’s desks have got to come from somewhere, he supposes. 

He doesn’t really know why he agreed— whether it was from pure boredom or this burgeoning curiosity. He wants to know her story, just as she wants to know that of the murder victim.

She sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she writes, and Michael finds a strange warmth emanating from the tips of his ears and his face. She hands him the note, with an address and time, and grins up at him. 

“I know you don’t really drive, so it’s my favorite place by a bus stop! You looked kind of carsick earlier.” She admits, giving him that look of concern again. 

He nods, takes the piece of paper, and swiftly walks off in the other direction when Lucifer spots him. 

What he doesn’t see, however, is Chloe. After Michael’s turned around, she carefully bars Lucifer’s advance with a hand on his chest.

“You’ve done enough.”

———————

Michael enjoys bars. 

Not for the human reasons, of course (the “right reasons” as Lucifer had so elegantly put it). Michael likes bars because they are dens of regret. Of fear. 

He finds himself early by about five minutes, and orders a vodka as soon as he sits down. The man next to him keeps looking at his phone screen, worried, and Michael lets loose a little control just out of curiosity. Carefully, he tugs on the slipknot and lets the room flood into a different kind of focus around him.

The man on his phone is waiting for a message from a woman scorned. The woman behind him is afraid her date won’t show up. The man watching her is afraid that he’ll get caught with-

Lilies. The smell of lilies.

“Hey Michael! You made it.” Ella laughs, bouncing up to him with her usual gusto. She looks like she thinks about hugging him, seriously considers it, and changes her mind.

At least she’s learning.

She looks down at his glass, disappointed. “Aw, started without me? Guess I’ll have to catch up.”

She flags down the bartender, a man she seems to know. Who doesn’t Ella know in the city?

“Tequila! Of course you could guess that, I get it every time.”

It’s a strong spirit to start on, he notices, and wonders if she’s doing it to match him or just because that’s what she wants. 

He knows what alcoholism is, unfortunately. 

“You know, I don’t mind that you don’t talk much. I mean I know I talk enough for the both of us, and twice as fast, but you just seem like a really good listener. And what you did for me today was super nice, I know you didn’t have to go to the scene either.” She rambles, looking down at her hands more than at him. When her glass arrives, she takes a sip and switches to looking into that.

“I just... I consider you a friend, you know? And I don’t know what your deal is behind the scenes, but I wanted to make sure you know you can talk to me too.” 

She finishes her little heart-to-heart by tossing back the glass with practiced ease. Michael copies the movement, nodding stiffly.

“That... means a lot. Thank you.”

Luckily, for the rest of the evening most of what she says isn’t of much consequence. The tequila makes sure of that.

———————

“I like you more than Lucifer.” Ella slurs, arm stretched comically high to wrap around his shoulders. He’s got his arm around her, too, but mostly to keep her from falling over.

“And why’s that?” Michael asks. He humors her, because he knows it’s a good way to get her distracted so he can get her home and get the hell out. Only a few blocks now.

“You really listen to me. Not like playing on your phone or anything. You know things, too. Crazy things. And you don’t pretend to be the devil even though you’re nice. But you’re not like nice-nice, you’re cool nice. I like it.” she backtracks at the end, trying not to offend him.

It’s oddly endearing.

“Here. Now you’re home, can you get in?”

Ella’s drunken nod makes him doubt her more than before, and he lets her enter the apartment building access passcode. 

At least she can do that, but walking seems to be quite the challenge. Welcome to my life, Michael thinks bleakly.

There’s an elevator, thank Dad, and he gets her up to her place without much struggle.

“Where’s your key?” he asks, puzzled, and she sways in his arms.

“Issin my pocket.” 

With a sigh, he digs in said back pocket to unlock the door, and she giggles. “Tryna cop a feel? You’re a cutie, but take me on a real date first.” she yawns.

Michael rolls his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time, walking her into the little apartment and towards the bedroom. She manages to somehow get both shoes off on the way there, and he assists with her socks just as a courtesy.

Without so much as a thank you, she rolls herself up in the duvet fully clothed.

“Stay on th’ couch ‘kay? I don’t wanna be here alone.”

And, once again, he finds himself agreeing. What is it about her that makes him so open to such indignities?

He settles in the living room, hanging his jacket by the door and toeing off his shoes and socks.

With a huff, Michael lays down on the couch and pulls a comically large knitted blanket up to his shoulders. He’s too tall, and his feet dangle over the armrest. 

What is he getting himself into?


	7. Main Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael wakes up at Ella’s, and finds she’s perfectly content to sit in silence when he wishes for it. 
> 
> The case continues, on a downward spiral, bound to hit the ground running soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took me a bit, hope it reads alright!

Ella wakes the next morning to a pounding headache and the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of sunshine directly on her face. She’s in her customary blanket burrito, and clothed, which means she probably didn’t get up to any shenanigans last night. 

She rolls over with a groan, looks at the clock, and briefly panics at the red 11:00 until she realizes it’s her day off. Thank the Big Guy for that, she feels like she’s been hit by a bus or two. Mierda.

Sitting up takes a while to accomplish, and with a sigh she stands to shamble to the bathroom.

Makeup now gone and teeth brushed, with a healthy amount of tap water chugged at full speed, she heads into the living room after changing Margaret’s water bowl and giving her some food.

And stops dead.

The night comes rushing back like a power point presentation. Michael, begrudgingly agreeing to go out drinking. She’d opened up to him, tried to get at that little bit of trauma Lucifer and him seem to share, let him know that she was there for him. 

A lot of it is a blur, but what isn’t is those perfect brown eyes watching her with the distinct glint of amusement. She remembers being giddy on it, on making his facade crack in the slightest.

And... oh. Yeah, he’d walked her home, and she gently touches her shoulder where she remembers his arm being. He hadn’t hurt himself, right? She knows he’s got some injury going on by the way he moves.

But Ella had felt weightless, like with that one arm he’d held her up straight like she was as light as a feather.

She remembers so distinctly the quirk at the corners of his mouth when he laid her down in bed, after taking her socks off. She’d asked him to stay, and here he is.

Michael is out cold. A massive pair of bare feet (she can’t imagine what his size is) poke comically over the armrest. His brown-black shock of hair is poking out from the knitted afghan, and he’s snoring so quietly she only picks it up after a moment of standing there.

She’s never seen him with his guard down like this. Or Lucifer, for that matter. Michael seems to hold his cards even closer to his chest than his brother does, and Ella’s heart aches for them.

For Michael, really, because he’s alone. And quiet, and she knows the way his eyes flick over people’s shoulders like he’s looking for exits. 

Ella sighs softly, steps into her slippers, and hopes she has the bare minimum of groceries for at least a somewhat nice breakfast. 

———————

Michael wakes up slow. He’s lucky he can’t have a hangover, or he’s certain he would. His whole body’s covered in something warm and fuzzy, and his shoulder feels like there’s an anvil settled on it for sleeping here. He’d fallen asleep on his right, like an idiot.

He blinks his eyes open and tries not to panic.

Right. Ella Lopez’s couch, because for some odd reason he had stayed after she asked him to. 

Sitting up’s going to take a bit, and he listens carefully to the sound of pans and silverware in the kitchen. Muted, like she’s trying to be quiet. To not wake him.

She does, or would, when she gently pads into the living room in some pink rabbit slippers and settles a large plate on the coffee table. An omelet, buttered toast, and some sliced strawberries. 

She takes in his open eyes, and laughs quietly when his stomach growls audibly.

“You feeling any better than me?” she asks, barely keeping from laughing further at his blank and somewhat surprised expression. 

She does, however, lose all traces of amusement when he tries to sit up. He tosses the blanket down toward his feet, brackets his right arm under himself to sit up, and fails.

Michael tries, he really does, but when he braces himself and tries to sit up his right arm shakes, and violently so, then buckles until he’s laying with it pinned under him. He hisses with the pain of it.

Ella surges forward, nerves forgotten, and doesn’t let him try a second time. She grips his left shoulder, encouraging him to swing his legs over the edge of the couch so she can help to sit him up. 

With all the anger it instills in Michael to be mothered as such, most of it drains out when he sees her face. There’s no pity on it, just worry. 

Because pity is a crutch. Pity is a damned curse. Siblings treating him constantly like he’ll break, looking at his wings with abject horror. The very extensions of his soul, one of them marred beyond repair.

“Sorry, sorry.” Ella breathes, darting back, face flushed as can be. Michael’s attractive like this, all sleep mussed with the top few buttons of his shirt having come undone during the night. 

“It’s fine, I... I wasn’t thinking when I laid down.” he admits, bringing his left hand across to rub gently at the sore muscles near his shoulder blade. He feels his scar, even through the shirt, gnarled and ugly. 

“It’s okay, I don’t mind helping.” she nods, and he’s struck again by the utter lack of pity for him. 

A blessing.

Ella gestures to the plate again, clearly his, and grins. “I scrounged up what I could, didn’t want you to go home on an empty stomach. And to thank you for walking me home.”

He moves toward the table, and she briefly exits his view to grab her own plate of food from the kitchen. Despite the delay it’s all still warm, and Michael leans back into the couch to savor the first few bites. 

It’s the first meal Michael thinks he’s ever had that’s cooked just for him, and him only. Not for Lucifer, not the pathetic canned things he’s been heating up for himself lately. 

She settles in next to him without hesitation. On his left, he notes, and she happily digs in next to him.

They eat in silence, mostly, so she leans forward to press the TV remote. It’s set to some nature channel, and she idly listens to the narrator talk about birds of paradise. 

Michael stiffens, from his very bones outward, and his feathers would likely be blades if they were out. 

Ella just attempted to lay her head on his shoulder.

Attempted, because the second he’d turned to stone under her she’d jerked back.

Their eyes meet, just for a second, and Michael sighs. He pauses, pops a strawberry into his mouth, and moves a few inches closer to her.

What’s going on here? She clearly likes him, for whatever reason, seeing something in Michael he himself can’t discern. They keep meeting, again and again, and every time they do she makes some long shot effort to spend time with him.

Ella said they’re friends, that she considers him one, but he’s not stupid enough to believe this is that. She settles her head against his shoulder again, nice and slow, gaze apologetic up into his. 

“Should’ve warned you the first time.” she mumbles, picking up on his aversion to touch.

He lets her stay, though, eyes staring blankly past the television as his mind races. This is so odd, so out of the blue. She’s just recovering from some huge trauma he’s still trying to unpack when around her, and here she is, head on his shoulder, arm sneaking its way around his.

Michael looks down at her, and she looks up to meet him, and he watches her eyes flick down briefly to his lips. The flush creeps steadily up her face, when she looks up and realizes he saw.

Ella’s shy smile, her hand settling on his, and he uses his right to set his decimated plate of food on the side table.

Michael is fucked.

And he knows it, even as they both lean in to meet in the middle. The chaste press of lips, brief and perfect

She pulls back, smiles, fiddles with his sleeve. “Is this okay?” she asks, and Michael just nods. 

Because yeah, somehow, it is okay. It feels okay. He’s shown weakness in front of her, and gotten no pity for it. Shown the worst of his attitude, and is the enemy of near everyone she knows, and she doesn’t care.

Ella’s phone rings.

———————

“Yeah, we’ve got him in interrogation right now. Lucifer and Chloe are in with him right now.” Dan deadpans, sounding as thrilled that Lucifer is here as Michael feels.

That is, not at all.

Ella sticks to Michael’s side like she’s been superglued there, having driven him over and offering to drive him home on her lunch. He wishes he could pop out and fly home, but things like that are so needlessly complicated.

Lucifer exits the room, Chloe on his heels, the devil fuming. “It has to be him! There’s no way it’s not him!”

“Lucifer, he told you! It’s his ex, he wants to get away from her, he has the-“ Chloe starts, and Lucifer abruptly interrupts her at the sight of Michael.

His shirt is wrinkled, jacket over his arm, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hair still somewhat disheveled. If his twin notices that he doesn’t comment, just marches right up and presses his finger to the center of Michael’s sternum. “YOU might actually be useful right now. Go in there, and ask him what he’s scared  
of.”

At his hesitance, Chloe just shrugs. “I don’t see why not.” 

So he sighs, hands Ella his jacket and pushes the doors open. He settles into the chair with a wince, briefly skimming the paperwork.

Chase Medford, 26, lives in the area. Works in a kitchen at a pastry restaurant. Owns the size and make of the shoe prints at the scene, DNA matches that of hair found on the victim. It’s pretty damning.

Michael looks up, wanting nothing more to not be here, and lets his anxiety bleed out into the room. Chase shudders visibly.

“Look at me.” he commands, and as if hypnotized the suspect obeys. Michael knows he’s overdoing it, can feel his control slipping as he struggles to keep a handle on his emotions.

“What is it that you truly fear, above all else?” and those words, that simple question, makes the cook sob immediately. His shoulders shake with it, and Michael keeps himself from letting his frustration out on the man further. It feels good, but it’s not right.

“M-My ex, she’s crazy. She’s been stalking me for the past year or so, she violated the restraining order... I’m so scared she’ll kill me or my girlfriend, she’s insane. I just want to go home, I want to change the locks, I want- I want-“

Michael stands, takes a deep breath to compose himself, and walks right back out into the bullpen without another word.

Lucifer is standing there, a broad grin on his face, and he sidles into Michael’s personal space to gloat.

“Losing control, are you? Can’t imagine how that feels.”

Chloe arrives a second later, and ever obedient to her, Lucifer takes two steps back.

She sighs, deep and tired, tapping something on her phone. “Alibi checks out.”

“What?!” Lucifer cries incredulously, and Ella appears, pressing herself into Michael’s side, unsettled by the verdict.

The bullpen takes on a distinctly purple hue when Chloe speaks next.

“It’s not him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael, slowly becoming a softie. Who knew!


	8. Picasso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Ella share a moment of pain that deepens their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEAVY ANGST WARNING.
> 
> GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS.

Michael drives Ella home. Not because he wants to, but because she sways so much on her feet that he can’t be sure she’d even make it to her car. 

From what he knows about her, it’s a warning sign enough that she hands over the keys without complaining. She’s terrified, and he doesn’t need his cursed ability to figure that out. 

She’s afraid that another someone won’t be as lucky as her. That somewhere along the line someone else is going to die, and it’s going to be on her to figure it out. Irrational, as far as fears go, she has no more control over the situation than Michael does. 

But the guilt... that comes so easily with a fear such as hers. The “why didn’t I do more” mentality. He still stands by what he said earlier in the week. She’s not sound. 

It takes an embarrassingly long time for him to adjust the seat to the length of his legs, but the drive itself poses no challenge. She lays her head against the window, staring out onto the street. People watching.

Her eyes linger on each jogger, on homeless people, on sign spinners and people dressed up as superheroes on the strip. 

Everyone’s a suspect until proven otherwise, and with the way Ella is taking it so literally Michael wonders how she hasn’t outright broken down about it yet.

She feels safe around him, he supposes, because she was with him for one of the kills. She’s his alibi and can confirm it herself. But how far does her trust extend?

Michael gets the impression that it’s not very far. 

They’re parked at her apartment, and with eyes red-rimmed Ella sits up straighter and takes a deep breath. 

“You don’t even know why I’m so messed up, and you’re so kind to me.” she murmurs, voice unsteady. “I know there’s something going on with you too, there’s no way there isn’t, but you even stayed at my apartment when drunk me asked you to. That deserves an explanation.”

Michael shakes his head, and then watches as her eyes widen. “You don’t owe me anything. If it weren’t for you I’d have been in the absolutely abysmal apartment Lucifer gave me all day, just sitting around. I don’t have a life, Ella.”

She takes a moment to process, just staring at the building through the windshield. 

“I know you think you’re so above everything. And that you don’t understand what’s happening around you a lot of the time. You don’t like to be touched without a warning. You don’t like loud things. Michael, you’re just as bad as I am, if not worse. How do you even do it?”

Michael sits, motionless, hands white-knuckled over the car keys. As a last second thought he drops said keys, not wanting to bend them.

“Time.” he chokes out, his fingernails leaving bright red crescents in his palms. “I’ve had a long time to deal with it. But it doesn’t go away.” 

Ella tries to look at his face, but he’s turned towards the window. She sighs.

“Recently, I... I dated a guy. His name was Pete and- and he-“ she sucks in a frantic breath and continues before her anxiety can stop her. “He was a serial killer. A reporter. He worked alongside us and was killing people the whole time- and when I found out who he was, he tried to kill me, he told me he loved me when he... when he fucking confessed!”

Michael is shaking, now, as he turns to face her. His palms are bleeding. She’s crying, silent tears rolling down her face as their eyes meet. 

He knows he’s made a mistake as soon as they do, he’s so unfettered right now- tormented with purple and red and feathers and the smell of lilies and Sandalphon’s triumphant grin as his spear plunged deep into Michael’s shoulder, Pete’s hands firm around his windpipe-

Ella sobs, and he’s snapped abruptly out of it.

She looks so confused, brows furrowed, and Michael realizes she’s touching him. One hand cradling his face, the other pressed firm to his chest. She’s leaned half over the center console to be close to him, sniffling softly.

“Who was that?” she cries quietly, trying to comfort him by soothingly rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone even as she panics. “Why did I see that? What just happened? You’re bleeding-“

She reaches for his hand, and he jerks back bodily. Abruptly, a forceful movement that presses him shoulder to ankle against the car door. 

“I’m sorry, I-“ she starts, leaning back into her seat.

Hands shaking, Michael picks up the keys from the mat under his feet as gently as possible. “Can I... take you to my apartment.” he asks, voice flat and weak. He tilts his head back, like he’s looking up at God through the luxury carpetwork of the car. 

“Yeah, yeah I... I don’t want to be alone.” she confesses, buckling back in mechanically as the car purrs back to life. 

Like he isn’t the source of her anxiety. Or if he is, she can’t pinpoint it. Even Michael can feel his curse, now. Filling the car with its noxious atmosphere. Spilling from his celestial skull to fill the street around them with a flood of panic.

As he drives, he idly notices a man riding a bike nearly crash into a lamppost when they pass.

Ella goes quiet, but doesn’t look out the window any longer. She looks at Michael. At the raised tissue of his facial scar, at the way he’s not even attempting to sit straight anymore. He drives one handed, and she shudders at the... memory? of a white-hot spear mangling her... or was it his? shoulder.

Everything is so tangled. Michael had looked at her, like he was looking into her very soul, and she saw gold. Saw the sky, saw gates hewn of pearl and silver. She’d looked into his soul back, and saw both of their pain mangled together like a Picasso. 

Michael’s apartment building looms out of the midday sky like a mausoleum.

It’s an eyesore, a big grey thing with little balconies jutting out of it like rock formations. He parks mechanically, and leads her through plain looking hallways and flights of stairs too steep.

It’s nothing like Pete’s charming little place, and Ella’s never been more grateful for tasteless modern art and blank white walls.

Michael’s place is much as he described it. Abysmal, devoid of life. She notices idly that the balcony door is propped completely open. Pigeons flee from the railing as they enter. 

“I’ll make you some tea and we can talk.” he murmurs, and the tone soothes her. Nothing like her dad’s “we need to talk”, more of a gentle promise of answers. 

She finds herself settled on the uncomfortable and blocky couch without a real memory of sitting down, watching Michael prepare some loose leaf chamomile. 

He’s cradling his right arm against his chest, hands wet from where he’s washed them to get the blood off his palms.

She rests her eyes for a brief moment, exhausted, and comes back to awareness when he coaxes a warm mug into her hands. 

“I haven’t... ever told anyone what I am before.” he starts, sitting opposite her in one of the armchairs. Tense as an alert rattlesnake, but curled in on himself. Fearful. “I don’t know if there’s a ‘be not afraid’ in order, or something. Not that that ever worked, it’s just-“

“What?” Ella interrupts, mindlessly sipping at the drink and letting it scald her mouth.

“You’re religious.” Michael tries, gesturing in the general direction of the gold cross around her neck. “And from what I know of Lucifer, that- that you don’t believe him, I don’t want to scare you.”

“Michael please just tell me what I saw!”

“I’m an angel.” he states abruptly, tone level, and settles his mug on the end table to stand.

“This isn’t a joke, okay?! I’m not... I’m not going to sit here while you play whatever game Lucifer is and make me think I’m crazy!” she shouts, rising to meet his gaze and setting her drink on the coffee table. 

“Ella, LOOK at me!” he yells, with such conviction and command that she’s almost powerless to do anything less than stand still and silent. He brings his arms out wide. “I’m going to show you my wings.”

She seethes, ready to rebuff him, to tell him he’s full of shit and she’s leaving-

They’re beautiful. 

Charcoal black, seemingly darkening the room like a sunset just by being out. The sound of traffic fades into the background as she takes in the gentle and pristine feathers of his wings.

The right one is injured, she notices, and before she can blink he’s pulling his shirt stiffly over his head to toss it away. 

“What you saw, when I so rudely let my panic take over both of us, was... was the worst moment of my life. I cast Lucifer’s lackeys to Hell, and one of them tried to drag me down as well.” he sighs, turns, and she can’t help but gasp. 

A black feather, as if on cue, falls from his ruined wing as she’s exposed to the worst scar she’s ever seen. Ella has seen war veterans, burn victims, and amputees with scar tissue less warped than this.

From the slope of where his neck joins his back, diagonally downwards and jagged at the edges. It’s as wide as Ella’s fully splayed hand in the middle. A raised mess of crimson and white, like a brand, veins webbing out under the palest parts where the skin looks like it’ll break like old parchment. It’s at least seven inches of broad and rope-like scar tissue, and when it hits his wing it’s a mass of red burn scars and shredded bloodfeathers for even longer. Muscle deep and ugly.

Ella cries. Silently, with breathtaking awe and a bone-deep despair that settles like a lead bar over her heart.

“What does this mean?” she sobs, frozen in place, her feet as heavy as the weight on her chest. 

Michael turns slowly, still cradling his right arm to his chest.

“It means you’re not alone.”


	9. Smell You Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ella asks, Michael answers.

Ella’s still crying, thinking about the raw muscle twitching under such thin skin. No wonder he limps, holds himself so crookedly, uses his left arm for everything. She could see a few stark white vertebrae peeking out of the edge of the burns, the scarred skin paper thin over them.

There’s still no pity from her, which he seems to appreciate as he slowly turns around. She’s sad because she knows he’s in constant pain, knows how he felt when he had to cast out his own brother. Knows the burning of slight pride as he turned around to fly back up, the easy glide of heaven-forged metal through his body when Sandalphon thrust the white hot barbed broadhead into his back in a last ditch effort to kill him. 

“You can’t get back.” she realizes quietly, watching as Michael pulls his wings back in and carefully tugs his shirt back on. 

“Unfortunately the tissue of my wing is damaged enough that I’m not sound for inter-realm travel upwards. So yes. I’m trapped here, because no one will help me get back.” he explains, sitting back in the armchair and gently rubbing his now sore shoulder. 

Ella flops back on the couch and nods, trying not to think about the implications of all this. Heaven, Hell, Lucifer is actually the devil, Maze is a demon...

She sighs, closing her eyes and rubbing at her temples. 

“You have questions. Ask them.” Michael encourages, crossing his arms. “But I’ll answer the first couple now. Yes, God is real. Hell is real, so’s Heaven. Lucifer doesn’t deal in souls. Maze is actually a demon. Amenadiel’s an angel too. No, I don’t know where you’re going to go when you die. That’s not my job.”

She listens carefully, nodding along when appropriate. It’s so much to take in, but at the same time it makes so much sense. So much, in fact, that she really doesn’t know what to ask anymore. A few seconds ago she was brimming with questions, and now? Almost nothing. She scratches her head slowly, trying to dredge up something to ask him.

“Who decides who goes to Heaven or Hell?” Ella asks after a moment.

“You do. Your guilt and sins condemn you. There is a failsafe in the form of my brother Raguel, who ensures corrupted souls or the wrongfully guilty don’t go the wrong directions.” He explains patiently. 

“Wait wait wait- are ghosts real?!” Ella exclaims, eyes wide as dinner plates. “I’ve been seeing a ghost since I was a kid, her name is Rae-Rae, if they’re real that means I’m not crazy.” 

Michael suddenly looks as surprised as her, and blinks. “Does she say ‘smell you later’ very often?” he asks.

At her incredulous look, mouth half-open, Michael continues.

“That’s my sister. She’s the angel of death. I’m guessing you spotted her on accident and she made that up. Pretty dumb, though. Ghosts aren’t a thing.”

“I have a guardian angel! That’s so cool.” Ella exclaims, grief from earlier forgotten. “She’s always helped me or annoyed me when she’s here, like a little sister. I guess that explains all the crazy stuff.”

“Sounds about right. I guess you’ve got quite a few guardian angels, now. I suppose Lucifer counts. Azrael, Amenadiel... me.” he adds reluctantly. “And a demon. Maze seems to like you.”

“...Maze makes so much more sense now.” Ella mumbles, eyes wide as she connects dots in her head. Wow.

“You’re not the only one who knows. Chloe does, now, as well as Linda. Though I suppose your awakening, per se, was a little more violent than theirs.” He admits, looking surprisingly guilty.

“Yeah, um... what was that?” she cocks her head, but leans back into the cushions. She’s always so relaxed, her body language letting him know he doesn’t have to answer even if she doesn’t say it out loud.

“Angels have... purposes. Talents we were imbued with when created. Lucifer reflects the desires of those around him back on them. Amenadiel can take a hold of time and briefly control it. Me?” he takes a deep breath. “My curse is fear. I can look someone in the eye, ask them what they are most afraid of, and they will tell me. But unlike Lucifer, sometimes I can see it. Humans with trauma bleed memories and feelings like open wounds. People can sense how wrong I am, as well, when I call upon it. One anxiety feeds another.”

When Michael pauses, Ella takes a second to absorb all of what she’s just been told. Curse...? “R-Right, but... why did I... see that? See yours? Everything was so clear, I...”

“I was fearful. And so were you. I was already seeing some of yours, but my control slipped. Our eyes met and I let my own fear bleed out. You saw my flashback. And, Ella...” Michael looks so mournful then, the most emotion she’s seen from him yet, that she almost starts crying again.

“I don’t ever mean to... I don’t usually want to invade people’s privacy. And not yours. But I do, sometimes, when I can’t help it. And you... you hurt. I can feel it.” he murmurs. He’s not sad for her, doesn’t pity her, just hates that he looked into her head without asking. 

“His name was Pete.” she spits, like a swear, and Michael nods. 

“He’s put away, right?” he asks, looking a little tense. Ella nods.

“For life, thank Go- your Dad, I guess. But Michael, if you can’t control it, then don’t apologize. I mean, it’s a hell of a conversation ender, but-“ Ella laughs a little. Exhausted by the day’s brief horrors, she leans back and rubs at her eyes with the collar of her blue ‘hanging out’ kitten t-shirt.

“But... this case, the meticulousness, the fact that there’s probably going to be another... it bothers me. Because I was so close to being that next body. It’s so... so...”

“Personal, now.” Michael interjects. “The religious imagery of these murders has me interested, I have to admit. To make one an angel and the other a demon?”

There’s a twinkle in Ella’s eyes, and a broad grin spreads across her face. “Are you actually interested in consulting? Because I could totally use some help in the lab too.”

“...You know what? Sure. Beats sitting in here all day. I don’t even have a plant.” He decides with a great and heavy sigh.

“I’m buying you a cactus.” Ella decides out loud, then yawns deeply. “Ugh. It’s not even late.”

“Well, to be fair, I don’t think I’ve understood the phrase ‘long day’ until now.” he states, and smiles softly at Ella’s answering laugh.

“I think I’m gonna have to commandeer your couch for a nap.” she states. “I mean, if you don’t mind. But please, seriously.”

Michael chuckles and stands, carefully folding his jacket over his shoulder. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Actually, um...” she settles back, opening her arms. “Come here?”

“I run cold.” he warns her quietly, but she shrugs in response.

When he moves she does too, taking one of the throw pillows and settling if against the armrest. She lays on her back, then looks at him and opens her arms again. Her face flushes. “I run warm.”

Michael carefully toes off his shoes, climbing onto the couch. She announces her touches with gentle brushes before she grabs, maneuvering him until he’s laying on his front with his head resting on her stomach and arms lightly around her waist. “Drop your weight. You’re not that heavy.” she insists, so he does, and she sighs. “Like a nice weighted blanket.”

He snorts. “Do you plan to sleep or keep talking?”

Fiddling with the one unruly curl at his temple, she just grins. “You be quiet. And when we wake up? Let’s go solve a  
murder.”


	10. Eros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they fall together, heedless of the terrors around them, lost in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEED WARNINGS AND TAG CHANGES.
> 
> Gore, graphic injury, and sexual content in this chapter.

“Enough, Samael!” Azrael screams at his twin, even as she casts Belial through the great ring of Light encompassing the gates. 

Michael and him grapple, clawing at eachother’s faces, reduced to beasts at the weight of this battle. Samael’s eyes are silver, Michael’s gold, and they rain blows of bone shattering fury upon one another. 

Michael is winning.

Inch by inch they move across the marble, and in a great but careful wrench of his rapiers Michael draws them against the edge of Samael’s claymore. The metal rends with a shriek, the vibration enough to make his twin drop the weapon with a hiss. 

“Cast him out.” Father commands, and all eyes turn to them. The only identical two. The order is brutal in its promise, to cast his mirror out or fall with him. Michael struggles to choose for a second too long.

Samael looks up with a bitter smile, grips Michael’s wings with both hands, and leaps backwards.

They sail in a wide swan dive downward, pulling great fistfuls of bloody feathers from each other in the great struggle to disentangle and stop their spiral. They lash out at the same time, blows colliding, flinging their bodies apart. Lucifer sneers and grips his reflection’s right wing with burning fury, grinding the bones beneath his hand before he wrenches them sideways from the socket.

Michael is crying, sobbing brokenly, wings snapping out to catch the air as he watches Samael try to do the same.

But he can’t, because the second he goes to do it they’re visibly forced tight to his body, the edges of his feathers starting to blacken like burning paper.

As it happens, their bond in his head shatters like the greatsword. Lucifer lets go.

For the first time in his existence, Michael is unequivocally alone in his mind.

The horror of it drops his guard, and he misses Sandalphon falling above him.

The brute of an angel, cast out by Remiel, snags Michael’s right wing on his way past. And again, he falls. Claws and panics to disengage the grip, even as his weakened bones shift and shatter. A fox biting its own leg to escape a trap.

The falling one leans in close and grins, even as Michael breaks his wounding grip, thrusting his spear upwards as Michael makes to turn. 

Because if he was to be damned, with no way back up, then he was taking the other half of the Demiurge with him.

Michael falls backwards in his struggle to balance with one wing barely functioning, and the light sting starts on the left side of the back of his neck. Drags down and in, splits his vertebrae like a hot knife and snaps through his ribs like parchment paper. The serrations pull great pieces of flesh from him, the white hot forge of the blade searing through organs and muscle. He flaps viciously to climb, and barely raises enough to keep the barbed end from piercing clear through him. He’d truly have no way to escape, then. Blood fountains in streams from his body, spraying in an arc of rubies from torn arteries. His spinal cord is severed, only his sheer Will keeping him moving.

He functions on panic, no more than an animal as his fear blocks the pain and forces him upwards. His right wing doesn’t cooperate, nearly severed at the joint and shattered in places, and it’s painfully slow going as darkness pulls on the edges of his vision. He doesn’t know how long it is before he starts to see Light again.

When he reaches the great gates hewn of pearl, only Raphael is posted there. He opens the gate, hurrying to support Michael’s weight as joyful tears pour down his face.

“They already went to court, but I couldn’t— as soon as Samael was cast, Father called us. All flew instantly to Him. But me... I could not leave you. I knew you would make it.” he sobs, pressing hands wide and bitter cold into the wound on Michael’s back and beginning to call on his healing ability.

“Now is not the time for defiance.” Michael rasps weakly, even as consciousness begins to slip from him.

“Please be silent. Let me take care of you, brother.”

Michael’s head was so... quiet. Empty, without the call of his twin.

Lonely.

———————

Michael wakes with a start, a low keen of grief escaping before he can stop it. He’s crying silently, as he was in the dream, tears rolling in a slow and meandering current down his cheekbones.

Ella is still asleep. Her hair frames her face beautifully, and he remembers Greece. A woman with dark eyes and obsidian hair offered him some grapes to try from her stall. Her hands, dainty and stained red, were smooth and heated on his skin.

She was beautiful. Ella is beautiful. 

He’s in love, he realizes, wiping the evidence of his sorrow from his face with the sleeve of his turtleneck. He yearns for her.

He’s had this before. 

There was a man, in Galilee. With flyaway grey hairs and a neatly trimmed beard, who was brutal with the wild dogs and the softest with his beloved lambs. Michael had blessed his home, then, and stayed past his welcome and further. They talked about philosophy and science until the only thing lighting the hut was the candles. They herded the sheep out into the pasture in the morning and back at night.

He’d withered with age, and when he saw Michael return again and again with the same face...

He watched from above as the man died, guilty for sending him away. He never reached the gates, though Michael waited.

The woman from Greece made it. They sat many days in the endless prairie, watching the lingering sunrise and talking about life.

She forgot, though. Eventually. Human brains aren’t made to be packed with so much. She got a Heavenly dream, and Michael was alone again.

Ella stirs, and his chest tightens as he watches her eyelashes flutter. 

Michael loves her so.

Ella “Are you sure you’re okay?” Lopez.

He thinks she might be the first person that’s ever asked him that instead of taking his lies at face value.

“Michael.” she smiles softly, still groggy, running her sleep-clumsy hands through his hair until he gives in and looks up.

“Ella.” he croaks quietly, nightmare forgotten as an answering smile crosses his face.

“Your eyes are red.” she notes, concerned, and continues to card her fingers through days-old hair product and freed curls. She doesn’t prompt him for an answer, but he feels comfortable enough to give it nonetheless.

“I had a night terror.” he confesses, burying his face in her stomach and giving up the struggle of breathing for a bit.

“If you want... we could take a shower? If you’re not comfortable that’s totally okay.” she backtracks. “I know it’s hard to be alone after them, though. And we should clean up before I have to go to work.”

He thinks about it.

It doesn’t take that long to come to a conclusion.

“That would be nice.” he admits, raising his head to speak and meeting her eyes.

No pity. Just warmth.

He assures his answer, then, overcome with a wave of something that tugs at his sternum and flutters in his lungs. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

———————

They strip facing eachother. Her first, and he follows each of her items with one of his own. Shirt for shirt, socks for socks. 

They’re both red in the face, grinning like idiots, and Ella can’t help but giggle at the way Michael’s eyes resolutely don’t go below her collarbone. So polite that he even looks away when she bends to turn on the water.

“You’re still comfortable?” She asks, gripping his left hand and drawing him in through the glass sliding door. He nods.

“You’ve seen my back. And you... look at me the right way.” 

Ella doesn’t quite know what that means, but grins anyway as she dunks his head under the water. He laughs a little and splutters. “I’ll wash your back.” she offers, placing her hands on his chest to move past him and turn the water warmer. He’s... Big J of Nazareth he’s built. She wants to grab his pecs in both hands and squeeze. 

Stomping down that thought, she’s immediately hit with another that makes her redden all over again. She’s using his soap, and she’s going to smell like him, all day at work. Somehow that’s even more scandalous.

They wash their hair in companionable silence, and she’s careful not to touch him while his eyes are closed. But while hers are, his palms spread body wash slow and gentle up her spine.

His hands are cold, as they always are, but she loves it in contrast of the steam. Michael even digs his fingers in a little along her lower back, encouraging her muscles to relax. She sighs, letting her head drop forward to rinse the shampoo out. His hands are so big.

“Here, turn. I’ll do yours.” she smiles, and he looks at her like she’s the world before he complies. He’s not scared of her touch anymore, and it makes her heart swell with pride and love. 

Love. 

She trails her fingers feather light across the ruined skin of his shoulder, washing it as much as feeling it. He shivers, bone deep and happy, pressing back into her touch as she finds a sore spot to rub. 

They rinse together, and she knows why he’s suddenly a little sheepish and facing his body away, but she doesn’t much care as she slides her arms around his waist and plasters herself to his broad back. He shivers again, and by his sharp inhale he’s about to say something, but she stops it by running a hand down his chiseled abdomen— dios mio— he chokes on air and tilts his head back. 

“Is this okay?” she asks, hesitant, diverting her path to lay her hand on his hipbone. 

He sighs shakily with his answer, head tilting to meet her gaze, dark eyes hooded and heated. “Please.” he nods, and she’s bowled over again by the devotion in his eyes.

Ella’s hand slips down, finding the heated flesh of his hardening dick. Her hands are small, and she can just barely wrap her fingers around the base of it. He hisses, reverent, and she presses soft kisses to his back as she starts to move.

Michael makes this breathy noise that sounds like “yes” and “please” and “more” all at the same time, and she’s drunk on it.

She tightens her grip and he moans, hips hitching forward, eyes fluttering shut with a curse as she twists her hand on the way up. 

“So good-” he stutters, heat coiling in his belly as she bites a line across his good shoulder blade and sighs against his back. 

She’s so small compared to him, heads shorter and hands petite and perfect on his cooled skin. She ignites a fire within him with every touch, bringing him closer with whispered praises against his flesh.

“Let go, Michael. Let me take care of you.” she murmurs, eyes like molten earth when they meet his. Warm and hard and begging, beautiful.

He wants to argue, wants to turn around and crash his lips to hers, but it’s over when she speaks again.

“Please?”

It passes through him like a wildfire. Slow heat builds and breaks, abruptly throwing him off the precipice and taking control of his thoughts. All he can see and breathe and think is her, hands worshipping as they caress him through it all.

“Oh- Ella-“

It rolls through slow, from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. His muscles relax in its wake, and he leans bonelessly against the cool tile wall. 

“Good.” She smiles, still beautiful as a goddess, taking her time to turn and let him be warmed by the water again.

“You-“ he starts, and she bats at his chest as she turns the water off. 

“No, I’m gonna be late for work!” she laughs, as if that’s just crossed her mind. “Come on, let’s get dressed. You can repay me later.” she winks.

Later.

———————

Another angel. Another innocent, a starving artist laid out in an alley with glass in her back. Chloe looks on, into eyes wide open in death, and wonders what this young woman has done to deserve such ire. She gave all she had to the less fortunate, even lived on the street with them, and now she’s gone.

Dan chokes down a cry of disbelief and turns away when he arrives, shoulders shaking.

“She goes to my church.” he laments, refusing to look as he pulls out his cell phone to dial Ella. “She’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.”


End file.
